


In the hope that some of them will hurt

by Adrianners



Series: Silver & Gold (You Need Someone to Count On) [2]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: 2016-2017 Grand Prix of Figure Skating Final, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Missing Scene, POV Christophe Giacometti, Past Christophe Giacometti/Victor Nikiforov, Set during episode 12, where did Victor go during Yuri's free skate?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-14
Updated: 2018-05-14
Packaged: 2019-05-07 02:54:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14661840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Adrianners/pseuds/Adrianners
Summary: In Barcelona, Viktor has his own turn crying in a GPF arena bathroom during Yuri Plisetsky's free skate. Chris, still feeling the sting of his lackluster performance, is looking to cause some trouble. Two wounded men hurt each other in the way only friends can and start to heal.





	In the hope that some of them will hurt

**Author's Note:**

> This story takes place in the same universe as [“And So Viktor Met Him,”](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10669824) but knowledge of that fic isn’t required to follow the plot here. One thing worth knowing in advance, since it’s a bit unusual, is that Chris and Mystery Man (Mathieu) are married in this universe. I think everything else is covered in the tags and the story itself.
> 
> Title is from J.M. Barrie’s _Peter and Wendy_ , chapter 16, “The Return Home.” The full line is, “That is all we are, lookers-on. Nobody really wants us. So let us watch and say jaggy things, in the hope that some of them will hurt.” It seemed fitting for two people who are feeling sidelined by the things they love.

Chris isn’t going to watch the last skaters, not when he already knows he won’t be on that podium. Maybe that makes him petty, but right now he’s too worn out to care. He’s spent almost a decade on the senior circuit, he’s about to be kicked from third to fifth place by a pair of teenagers, and there’s only so long he can maintain a positive attitude about it. This was supposed to be his year. Turns out Chris should’ve been watching his own back. The ankle-biters he used to find so amusing are grown men now, unimpressed by a 25-year-old relic and his never-quite-good-enough efforts. And now Katsuki Yuuri can land four perfect quads in a free skate. _Fuck_.

He dodges past the mixed zone with excuses that he doesn’t feel well. It’s not untrue, but he’ll almost certainly get a passive-aggressive email about professionalism and the values of the sport from ISU and Swiss skating federation officials alike for that one. His skates are already off, unlaced in record time so he could get the fuck out of there. Mathieu has offered to pack up in the holding area, reading Chris’ foul mood with his usual accuracy. As Chris strolls toward the dressing room to get out of his costume, he makes a mental note to reward his husband handsomely later tonight. And then sleep. A lot.

On the ice, Otabek Altin is skating to a re-orchestration of Beethoven’s Ninth, the bits you only hear in symphony halls. Chris has watched the program on Youtube and out of the corner of his eye at practices here in Barcelona. It’s impressive, if a bit stiff in places. That bronze at Worlds wasn’t a fluke; the kid is good.

At least Otabek won’t be at Euros, nor will JJ, Yuuri, or Phichit. Maybe Chris will have a shot at a decent placement there. If he can manage not to pop his jumps.

Yuri Plisetsky and his coaches pass Chris on their way to the rinkside. The three of them look like they’re marching to war. On the other side of the hallway, there’s a flash of silver hair as a bathroom door swings shut. What a lucky coincidence that Chris simply must wash this unsightly sweat off his face immediately. If he gets in a couple of cheerful barbs at Viktor in the process, well, maybe the universe owes him that small piece of satisfaction.

What he doesn’t expect to find is Viktor clinging to the edge of the countertop, knuckles white, as tears drip off his face and into the sink. He’s hunched over but doesn’t make any of the sounds one might hear from somebody crying as hard as he is. The movement of his chest is steady as he breathes. His shoulders are perfectly still. 

Chris reaches for the place in himself where he ought to find shock at this scene, maybe sympathy, but instead there’s… Nothing. Of _course_ Viktor Nikiforov knows how to cry with no noise and minimal physical signs. His training team probably includes a crying specialist to help him achieve the most touching, photogenic gold medal reactions. Never mind that Chris hasn’t seen Viktor cry once in all the years they’ve known each other. The image of Viktor attending crying practice, taking careful direction on lighting angles and teardrop size, is fueling Chris’ spite too nicely to give it up. All he can think is Viktor has no right to be upset over his own choreography taking so much glory. Nobody is looking at him as a has-been tonight. He’s standing at the head of his new legacy as two skaters pick right up where he left off.

“If you’re that torn up about your world records, maybe you shouldn’t have retired.”

It’s a cruel thing to say, but god help him, it feels great in this moment. Viktor jumps half out of his skin and whips around to stare at Chris. There are still tears running down his cheeks. Chris waves at him vaguely, a mere flick of the wrist.

Viktor swears in Russian with a vehemence Chris hasn’t heard since the time a sportscar almost ran them both over in Moscow the day after Worlds ended. That had been, what, five years ago? Long enough that “We didn’t become roadkill, hurray!” sex was an option. They had been so young, enjoying each other’s bodies without obligations or the threat of developing romantic feelings. They’d imagined themselves above the need for love, too devoted to the ice to give any part of their hearts to men. Mathieu had shattered that illusion for Chris with his gentle affection and dry sense of humor. He’d made Chris realize that settling down didn’t mean becoming boring. But Viktor? As his career progressed, it was as if the ice crept up around his skates and grew until he was encased in it. Although Chris knew he could count on Viktor for a night of post-competition fun, even after “fun” stopped meaning hooking up, the enjoyment didn’t always seem mutual. Viktor sometimes acted as if he had no need for friends, let alone lovers.

Until Sochi. Until Yuuri.

“It’s…” Viktor pauses to swipe away the tears from his face. “It’s not about the records. Why does everybody think I give a _fuck_ about the records?”

Chris crosses his arms and leans a hip against the countertop a few sinks away from Viktor. “Oh, no reason. It’s just that two of them are gone in one competition, maybe all three if little Yuri does well enough, and you never let anybody within spitting distance of them for years.”

“It’s not my fault you couldn’t catch up to me!” He’s not shouting—Viktor Nikiforov does not shout—but it’s a near thing. Applause for the end of Otabek’s program should drown him out to anyone walking past the bathrooms.

Chris narrows his eyes. Viktor takes a sharp step backward, as if physically repulsed by his own words. His leg slams against the counter and he stumbles, throwing his hands back to catch himself on the edge.

“I didn’t mean that,” he gasps. “Oh my god, Chris, I didn’t mean that.”

“Yes, you did.”

“No, I—”

“It’s fine. I accepted it a long time ago.” It’s not a lie, although some days are definitely better than others. Today is… not one of the good days, and Viktor isn’t even skating. “Every competition you were in was another episode of the Viktor show, even before you started winning everything.”

“I’m _sorry_.” Viktor moves toward Chris but freezes when Chris holds up a hand, the message clear: Stay away. He doesn’t drop the hand until Viktor shrinks back to where he stood before.

“I told you, it’s fine. You didn’t seem to realize you were doing it. None of us could take the spotlight off you for a second, so I got used to being a side character in your story, the guy who tries hard but fails. So yeah, you’re right. It’s not your fault I wasn’t good enough. I only hoped that maybe this time I’d… Well. You’re lucky you got a real swan song last season, because I’m having more of a half-assed death squawk.”

He can’t meet Viktor’s eyes. He’s skirting the subject, but this is the closest he’s gotten to mentioning retirement to anyone, including Mathieu and Josef. In the arena, the audience sounds its approval for Otabek’s scores and Yuri’s introduction by the announcer, and still neither Chris nor Viktor speaks. The opening notes of “Allegro Appassionato” ring out.

“Christophe Giacometti.” Chris snaps his head up. Is Viktor _shaking_? His hands are clenched into fists so tight the tendons pop against his skin. “If you dare tell me you’re retiring, I will never speak to you again.”

Typical Viktor. What difference does it make to him whether Chris keeps competing? It’s not like Chris is going to disappear. Sure, he may go to university like he’s been putting off for years, but he would never leave skating behind. He could choreograph, commentate, maybe join Mathieu on the boring, bureaucratic side of things. Okay, not that last one. But who is Viktor Nikiforov to be giving ultimatums about retirement to anybody?

“Oh, and you’re one to talk, mister ‘I’m going to blow off everything and shack up with the man who humped my leg at a party.’”

Viktor crosses his arms in what is probably meant to be a mirror of Chris’ posture, but he looks more like he’s trying to shield himself against the world. Another lone tear runs down his cheek, at odds with the defiant look on his face.

“I’m coming back,” he says.

“ _What_?”

“I decided a few minutes ago. I thought I’d said everything I had to say on the ice, but seeing Yuuri land that flip… I was wrong. About me, skating, competing, _everything_. There’s so much I want to do differently now. I want to be back out there with you, with Yurio, with that loud Canadian guy, with— with _Yuuri_.” His voice breaks at last. It’s like he’s choking on the name. “So don’t retire. Let’s get our asses kicked by a bunch of upstart kids together. Please?”

Viktor isn’t crying any harder than he already was, but everything about him just… slumps. He looks helpless. Defeated. And yet he’s still beautiful, even with tears dropping off his lashes and his eyelids beginning to swell. You could sell those tears as an elixir of youth, Chris thinks with no small amount of jealousy. He used to believe he’d come to accept his envy, that he could put it to the side and just be Viktor’s friend when they were off the ice, but seeing that Viktor cries like a Disney princess tells Chris what a suppressed part of him has always known: It was never only about the medals.

He’s a total bastard to be having these thoughts while one of his dearest friends weeps in front of him.

None of this makes any more sense than it did when Chris first walked into the bathroom. Viktor isn’t sad about losing his records, but he’s crying over making his own comeback? He ought to be calling press conferences, blithely stealing the spotlight from every competitor in Barcelona, not hiding in a bathroom while he and Chris snipe at each other. But again, why is the possibility of Chris retiring such a cause for grief? Surely the person Viktor most wants to share the ice with is Yuuri.

Yuuri, who’s nowhere to be seen while Viktor is falling apart. 

Suddenly the puzzle snaps together. Viktor looked ready to punch Chris for mentioning retirement. Viktor is returning to competition. Viktor wants to skate with Yuuri. Viktor can barely bring himself to say Yuuri’s name.

“You can’t mean Yuuri’s retiring.”

The way Viktor’s whole body draws in on itself even further tells Chris all he needs to know.

“I— I don’t know. It’s all so… I don’t _know_.”

It’s the last straw for Chris. In an instant, he’s crossing the bathroom floor and gathering Viktor up into a hug. Viktor goes completely rigid the instant Chris’ arms close around him, but he doesn’t try to move away. His arms even settle at Chris’ waist, and his fingers wrap themselves into the material of his jacket. He so clearly needs the physical contact, but he can’t seem to take that final step and let Chris hold him. He doesn’t budge when Chris gives him a gentle push to lower his head. He’s holding his face a careful distance from Chris’ torso, ducking his head so the next tear to fall goes straight from his cheek to the floor. Chris’ heart sinks at the sight. Crying his eyes out, and Viktor’s first thought is to not get his tears on Chris’ Swiss team jacket.

“Hey, it’s okay. You can snot all over my clothes, I don’t care. It’s going straight to the cleaners when I get back to Lausanne, and nobody’s going to see it tonight. I’m being a sore loser and not doing press.”

“That’s a really bad idea,” Viktor sniffs.

“I know.” He does know. There will be consequences, and he’s screwing over Future Chris in a big way with his behavior tonight. It’s a good thing Future Chris is still him, and he’ll understand that comforting Viktor was more important than anything. It was just a bonus that doing so kept him away from reporters until they had medalists to interview instead of Christophe “Popped 4S” Giacometti.

He gives Viktor another little nudge to the back of the head and feels him finally relax into the hug. He buries his face in Chris’ shoulder and lets Chris murmur soothing nonsense until his body stops trembling. There’s a wet spot on the jacket now, sure enough, but Chris isn’t going to say a word about it.

“I love him, Chris.”

“I know you do.” He can’t bring himself to ask for details. He doesn’t want to insert himself into Viktor and Yuuri’s problems, and he can’t bear the thought of assigning blame to either of them. These are his friends who are apparently hurting each other so badly that, well, _this_ is happening. The surprise and concern he felt at seeing them together in Beijing seems like a bad omen now.

“I kind of thought I didn’t have any crying left in me,” says Viktor. He makes a noise that sounds like an attempt at laughter, but it comes across as more of a sob.

“It seems like you’ve got a backlog to catch up on.” Chris sighs and gives Viktor one last squeeze before letting him go. It’s not like he expects his friends to cry in front of him. He certainly doesn’t make a habit of it himself, so he never had a reason to think Viktor was strange for it either. But surely there had been signs he’d missed, more than just Viktor’s ennui last season. 

“I’ve been such a shitty friend,” he adds because it’s true. He fishes in his pocket for a travel pack of tissues and holds them out to Viktor.

“It’s not your fault. I never let you get close enough to see when something was wrong.” Viktor accepts the tissues, gingerly wiping the tears off his face with one before blowing his nose with another. “I’m tired of being like that. From now on, I want to be… more honest about myself, on and off the ice.”

“That,” says Chris, “sounds like one of the best choices you’ve ever made.”

Yuri’s music ends. The final notes bounce and echo strangely on the tile walls, then a wave of applause shakes through the room. Viktor brushes one last tear away from his right cheekbone and blots his face down with another handful of tissues before pulling a tube of liquid concealer from his pocket. He dabs a series of dots under his eyes and across his nose, blends the makeup in with tiny strokes of his little finger, and silently looks up from the mirror for Chris’ approval. Chris nods.

“You’re the prettiest princess at the party. Now let’s go congratulate your boyfriend on his first GPF medal.”

With perfect timing, another round of applause rolls in from the arena. The score announcer’s voice is too muddled to make out the words, but the cheers increase to a roar. Viktor tilts his head up toward the sound. Chris thinks—and he knows this is unfair of him, but being unfair about Viktor is an age-old habit that he may never break—he looks like some kind of purebred hunting dog, listening for prey, assessing a threat. If he’s coming back to competition, that’s _exactly_ what he’s doing.

“Did that sound like a gold medal to you?” Viktor asks.

“Hard to say.” Chris puts a finger to his lips, an exact parody of Viktor deep in thought. “They’re always that loud for you, so I’ve entirely forgotten what somebody else winning the Grand Prix sounds like.”

“I need to find Yuuri.” Viktor is out the door before the end of the sentence.

They step into the hallway and find themselves surrounded by a gaggle of cheering Leroys, JJ and his fiancée the happiest and loudest of them all. JJ spots them because of course he does.

“Hey, Chris, did you see it?” JJ fights his way to the edge of the crowd and claps Chris on the shoulder. “They’re saying it’s the narrowest men’s GPF score range since the switch to IJS! Phichit’s closer to Yuri than you were to Viktor last year! We’re all history makers!”

Well, this is unexpected. Is JJ bragging… communally? He must have a medal, otherwise his family wouldn’t be losing their minds. Does that leave Chris in fourth place or fifth? His phone would be blowing up if the teenagers choked badly enough to let him slip by with bronze. But which Yuri is JJ talking about, Katsuki or Plisetsky? Maybe they should all adopt the “Yurio” habit for Yuri Plisetsky, not least of all because it turns him into an angry kitten. Convenience and entertainment in one package.

“Which Yuri?” Viktor demands, apparently sharing Chris’ thought process. “JJ, which Yu—” But the Leroys have moved on, dragging JJ with them.

“I thought you didn’t know ‘loud Canadian guy’s’ name.”

“Who?”

Chris groans. “Oh, come on. He’s obnoxious, but he’s not that bad. We were terrible at his age too.”

“He upset Yuuri in Moscow,” says Viktor, as if that settles the matter.

“What was your excuse for not knowing him last season, then? Did you get a premonition that he’d be rude to the boyfriend you didn’t have yet?”

“No, that was just me being a dick because he was annoying.”

Chris throws up his hands in defeat. If Viktor can act like a diva, at least it’s a sign that he’s feeling better.

“Viktor?”

They turn, and Chris knows in an instant that there is no way Katsuki Yuuri is going to retire tonight. He’s seen plenty of skaters about to announce their retirements. None of them ever looked like Yuuri. 

There were the champions, satisfied with one last strong performance before they cleared the way for the next generation. There were skaters who struggled to distinguish themselves, either through their whole careers or in their final seasons, finally choosing the point where they’d had enough. On a few occasions—memorable for all the wrong reasons—there were tragedies. At age 14, Chris was in the practice rink audience in Torino when Michelle Kwan fell for the last time in her competitive career. He’d heard about Machida suddenly stepping aside mid-season two years ago, claiming that he wanted to focus on his studies. The press and fans alike had crucified him for it, though now they’re all just eager to see his ice show performances, as if they never hated him.

Yuuri seems neither satisfied nor resigned. He isn’t a man thwarted by injury or ground down with stress. He looks at Viktor as if there are a million things he wants to say, but he doesn’t speak.

Viktor is the one to step forward and break the awkward silence.

“Congratulations, Yuuri.”

“Congratulations,” Chris echoes. There’s no jealousy to suppress in his voice. That’s surprising. Maybe Viktor isn’t the only person who worked through something in that bathroom.

Yuuri shakes his head.

“Yurio beat me,” he says. “He fell on a quad toe, but his lead from the short program was big enough that it didn’t matter. I didn’t win.”

Viktor sighs. “Who on earth gave you the idea that a silver medal isn’t a win? You must have a terrible coach if he lets you believe such a big lie.” He catches Chris’ eye and flashes a rueful smile. That, Chris knows, is the truest apology Viktor can give.

“No.” Yuuri shakes his head again. “I have the very best coach. Better than I ever imagined.”

Before Viktor can take his turn in this little game of humility one-upmanship, an ISU runner lives up to her job title and nearly collides with all three of them in her haste. Yuuri needs to be rinkside with his skates on and jacket off for the honors ceremony, and he’s kept everyone waiting long enough. The runner drags him away. Chris drops a firm hand on Viktor’s shoulder as he makes to follow them.

“Hey, message me later. No matter what happens. Just… let me know if you need anything.”

“I will. Thanks, Chris.” Viktor gets a few paces away, pauses, and looks over his shoulder. “Wish me luck?”

“ _Merde_ , sweetheart. Go get him.”

And then Viktor is gone with one final, bittersweet smile. The hallway is growing emptier, all the arena workers taking their stations for the ceremony and the exodus of the crowd to follow it.

“There you are!” Mathieu jogs up, skate bag in hand. “I went all through the dressing room looking for you. Why are you still out here?”

“Viktor problems,” Chris answers with a shrug. All of Mathieu’s worry melts away from his posture instantly.

“I should have guessed. What disaster befell our favorite drama queen on this fine evening?”

“Oh, one of the judges is wearing the same cufflinks as him, he needed a second opinion on whether he’s developing crow’s feet, the usual. I’m actually kind of glad I ran into him. We both needed to talk some things out tonight.” He links his left hand with Mathieu’s right and turns them toward the locker room.

“That’s good, then. Come on, let’s get you changed into some real clothes. Your incredibly proud and lucky husband wants to take you out to dinner. Maybe some dancing, if you’re amenable?”

He’s not being patronizing, Chris realizes. Mathieu is beaming, radiating the same pride he had when Chris won gold at the Trophée de France. Chris still doesn’t know if he took fourth or fifth place tonight, but it doesn’t matter. Everything else fades away when he’s the target of that wonderful, adoring smile. Nevertheless, he can’t stand the idea of being in the public eye this evening, not after the night he’s had. There are far, far better uses of his and Mathieu’s time.

“I was thinking more along the lines of room service, darling,” he purrs as he steps further into Mathieu’s personal space, trapping their linked hands between their hips. “But you know I’m always happy to dance for you.”

Mathieu groans from deep in his chest. “Christophe Giacometti, what did I do to deserve a husband like you?”

“Something wicked, of course.”

Hours later, while Chris is basking in some particularly nice afterglow, his phone buzzes on the nightstand. He slips on his glasses. Viktor’s name glows on the lock screen.

_I’m okay. Everything’s going to be all right. Thank you._

Chris barely has time to smile before another notification comes through, and then suddenly his phone is vibrating like a… well, like a vibrator, with a stream of messages so quick Chris can’t keep up.

_CHRIS I’M GETTING MARRIED_  
_YOU’LL BE A WITNESS RIGHT????_  
_I’m not supposed to ask that over text am I_  
_Let’s get coffee after gala practice tomorrow so I can ask properly_  
_omg am I interrupting you and Mathieu?_  
_I’m sorry!!!_  
_Have good sex_  
_Night!_

Reading over Chris’ shoulder, Mathieu bursts out laughing. It’s the most beautiful sound in the world. Chris grins and taps out a reply in a single message.

_Glad to hear it on all counts. You’re welcome. Yes, you are! Of course I will. You are definitely supposed to ask in person. Yes to coffee. Yes to interrupting. I forgive you. You too. Good night, princess!_

He mutes his phone, removes his glasses, turns off the lamp, and settles back into Mathieu’s arms. This is the first Grand Prix Final in years where Chris can sleep through the gala rehearsal, and he intends to enjoy every minute of it.

**Author's Note:**

> So I created the file for this story in September 2017, wrote most of it quickly (I _needed_ an explanation for why we don't see Viktor between hugging Yuri and appearing rinkside after the medal ceremony), and then let it languish for months because it had a few stubborn transition moments and I was busy with other writing priorities. Then I finished a thing and remembered that this was literally two hundred words from finished, so now here it is! For those of you who are waiting for the last chapter, epilogue, and bonuses for [“The Measure of My Time,”](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13256457) I hope this will tide you over because chapter 6 is the least-done part of what remains at this point.
> 
> You can see me whining about how hard writing is on [my Tumblr](https://adrianners.tumblr.com/), and I'm going to try to remember that I have a [Dreamwidth](https://adrianners.dreamwidth.org/) at some point in the near future too.


End file.
